#EnglishWriters
These springs were maidens once th… But lost to that they most approve… My story tells, by Love they were Turn’d to these springs which we s… The pretty whimpering that they ma…
While the milder fates consent, Let’s enjoy our merriment: Drink, and dance, and pipe, and pl… Kiss our dollies night and day: Crowned with clusters of the vine,
Though hourly comforts from the go… No life is yet life-proof from mis…
Whither dost thou hurry me, Bacchus, being full of thee? This way, that way, that way, this… Here and there a fresh Love is; That doth like me, this doth pleas…
Whenas inn silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly… That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and s… That brave vibration each way free…
Here she lies, in bed of spice, Fair as Eve in paradise; For her beauty, it was such, Poets could not praise too much. Virgins come, and in a ring
LACON. For a kiss or two, conf… What doth cause this pensiveness, Thou most lovely neat-herdess? Why so lonely on the hill? Why thy pipe by thee so still,
For those my unbaptized rhymes, Writ in my wild unhallowed times, For every sentence, clause, and wo… That’s not inlaid with Thee, my L… Forgive me, God, and blot each li…
In numbers, and but these few, I sing thy birth, oh JESU! Thou pretty Baby, born here, With sup’rabundant scorn here; Who for thy princely port here,
The May-pole is up, Now give me the cup; I’ll drink to the garlands around… But first unto those Whose hands did compose
In sober mornings do thou not rehe… The holy incantation of a verse; But when that men have both well d… Let my enchantments then be sung,… When laurel spurts i’ th’ fire, an…
Ah, my Perilla, dost thou grieve… Me day by day to steal away from t… Age calls me hence, and my grey ha… And haste away to mine eternal hom… ‘Twill not be long, Perilla, afte…
I dare not ask a kiss, I dare not beg a smile; Lest having that, or this, I might grow proud the while. No, no, the utmost share
Julia, if I chance to die Ere I print my poetry, I most humbly thee desire To commit it to the fire: Better ’twere my book were dead,
When I consider, dearest, thou do… But here awhile, to languish and d… Like to these garden glories, whic… The flowery-sweet resemblances of… With grief of heart, methinks, I…